Page 6
“Excuse me?” I ask, genuinely baffled by how Willow swung from terrified to cheery in a matter of seconds.
If I’m in a bad mood, it sticks to me for hours. Days.
My incredulous tone only makes her smile widen. “When you’re wrong, and we made this dramatic entrance for nothing.”
“I’m not wrong.”
“But if you are…” She points that snarky finger in my direction. “What do I get?”
“Why should you get anything?”
Her shoulders bounce. “Inconvenience fee.”
“Not dying is a great perk.”
Her head tilts to the side as she squints playfully. “Are you always this dark?”
I grunt before pushing toward the nurse’s desk, giving the man behind the counter a quick rundown of Willow’s symptoms. As expected, he pulls her straight back.
Willow’s eyes flicker with fear as she glances back at me.
“Mafia members aren’t known for being light and fluffy,” I tell her, following closely.
The relief wisping over her tense brow shouldn’t affect me the way it does. It feels like something inside my chest twists or…unlatches? I rub my knuckles against my sternum to push away the odd sensation.
The next few minutes are a whirlwind of people and activity. I’ve never been inside an ER before. I’ve been taken care of by team docs over the years, but never with this much staff around. It’s unnerving, and I’m not even at the center of it. An ER tech asks me to step outside at one point, but I respond with a gruff, “I’m not going anywhere.”
They shout out normal-sounding vitals and then 510 for her blood sugar. From years of watching Bryce balance his blood sugar, I know that’s incredibly high. The air punches out of my lungs as I reposition myself at the head of Willow’s bed, out of the way from the healthcare workers.
Another ER tech holds a rapid-result device, measuring Willow’s blood ketones.
“Negative,” he says, quickly moving to the next task.
“The good news is you’re not in DKA, but we still need to get your blood sugar down,” an older doctor tells Willow.
IV fluids are already running when a nurse steps forward with an insulin injection.
A myriad of overlapping beeps pepper the room as I crouch beside Willow. “I’m glad they’re getting your kidneys in tip-top shape before I remove them.”
It’s a terrible joke, but I’m not known for my humor. I’m not known for much, other than being reliable with a bat and quick in the outfield.
She lets out an amused snort, and the sound eases some of the tension in my shoulders.
“Your friend”—Willow pauses, swallowing hard—“that this happened to. He’s okay?”
“Yes,” I reassure her. “He’s still a bit of a goofball, but he’s fine. Healthy. Married. Kids. Stable job. The whole nine.”
Willow’s lips soften into a small smile.
“What position did he play?”
“Goalie.”
Her dark brows scrunch before a magenta-painted fingernail slides up my wrist toward the baseball diamond tattoo on my left forearm. It seamlessly flows into the expanded checkerboard wrapping my elbow.
“There are goalies in baseball?”
A tendon in my neck jumps, like it always does when thinking about my childhood. How my father’s and older brother’s choices and opinions dominated my life until I finally had something of my own.
